276 AC, Third Moon
The courtyard of Goldengrove Castle bustled with orderly activity.
Although the past few months had brought one crisis after another, the domain had weathered them all.
The winter frost had failed to ruin the spring harvest.
During those same months, a rumor had spread across the Reach.
The young heir of House Rowan…
…had received the blessing of Garth Greenhand.
The tale began in the western villages before quickly spreading throughout all of Goldengrove’s lands.
For the first time in years, the tenant farmers found hope again.
Many offered heartfelt prayers, believing that the ancient blessing of the Greenhand had returned.
The spring wheat had already been sown.
The planting of other crops was also progressing smoothly.
Today…
The heir to Goldengrove would depart.
This wasn’t the first time Gawen had left the castle.
He had accompanied his father on several hunting expeditions and numerous inspections throughout their lands.
But this journey was different.
Far more important.
He would be gone for a very long time.
More importantly…
It would be the first time he stepped beyond the borders of House Rowan’s domain.
Westeros might be a land consumed by war and political intrigue…
But it was also a world of magic and legend.
He wanted to see it with his own eyes.
Gawen personally tightened the saddle on his horse, making the final preparations for the journey.
His affection for animals was obvious to everyone around him.
His horsemanship was equally exceptional.
His mount was a massive copper-colored stallion with tremendous strength, a thick flowing mane, and a notoriously violent temperament.
The stablehands dreaded dealing with it.
Yet before its master…
The fierce beast became as gentle as a lamb.
“Have you packed everything?”
His mother looked at him with obvious concern.
Her long red hair flowed over her shoulders, and the freckles of her youth had faded with age.
“Everything’s ready.”
Gawen nodded before glancing toward the packhorse carrying his luggage.
Bethany asked again.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Mathis answered before Gawen could.
“He has everything he needs.
And if he doesn’t, he can buy it once he reaches the Citadel.”
When it came to his son…
Mathis had never been stingy with gold.
“Very well…”
Only then did Bethany relax.
She wrapped her arms around her two daughters while gently supporting her swollen belly.
By the time Gawen returned…
There would be another member of the family waiting for him.
The two little girls resembled one another closely, though one was slightly taller than the other.
Both were still very young.
Both had golden hair.
That golden hair was no accident.
Gawen had quietly awakened the dormant bloodline of House Rowan within them.
If they truly carried the blood of Garth Greenhand’s daughter…
Then magic should also flow through their veins.
“Big Brother!”
One of the girls threw herself into his arms.
“You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”
“I will.”
Gawen smiled warmly as he gently ruffled her hair.
“Very soon.”
“Come on…
let’s say our goodbyes properly.”
He embraced every member of his family in turn.
His father.
His mother.
His two younger sisters.
Bethany held him a little longer.
“Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will.”
Mathis offered his own instructions.
“Please convey my regards to the Archmaesters.”
Gawen chuckled.
“What about a fourth letter this time, Father?”
He was already carrying three.
One addressed to the Seneschal of the Citadel.
One for Lord Leyton Hightower.
And another for his cousin, Rhonda Rowan.
Mathis shook his head.
“Three are enough.” The source of this chapter is g.com.
He waved toward the waiting horses.
“Mount up.”
“It’s time to leave.”
Maester Corlin and the castle steward had also come to see him off.
Gawen nodded gratefully to both men.
They returned his smile with warm expressions.
Without wasting another moment…
He sprang lightly into the saddle.
His stallion immediately broke into a steady canter toward the castle gates.
Close behind followed the packhorse carrying his belongings.
Then came twenty fully armed knights serving as his escort.
They quickly formed a disciplined marching column, matching one another’s pace with practiced precision.
Clad in House Rowan’s gleaming silver-and-gold armor…
The knights looked every bit as magnificent as they were dangerous.
Behind them rode their squires…
…and the long journey to Oldtown had finally begun.
Not every knight traveled with a squire, but around a dozen of them did, accompanied by roughly the same number of servants.
For the first few minutes, the scenery was pleasant enough to admire.
After that, however, it became a sea of familiar repetition.
Endless grasslands stretched toward the horizon, broken only by scattered groves of trees and small farmsteads where golden waves of wheat rippled in the breeze.
Herds of cattle and sheep grazed peacefully in fenced pastures.
Nearby stood shepherds in long robes, leaning on wooden staffs, while children ran around them, staring curiously at the passing knights.
The column was approaching the first village along their route, and everyone had long since grown accustomed to such attention.
Gawen, however, paid little notice.
His thoughts were already focused on the Citadel.
After reading countless books and discussing the matter with Maester Corlin, he had already decided which subjects deserved his highest priority.
Ravenry.
Medicine.
Astronomy.
Those would be the first disciplines he pursued, as they interested him the most.
Afterward, he intended to study history, languages…
…and smithing.
The last was for one reason alone.
Valyrian steel.
No matter what, Gawen intended to understand its secrets.
He suspected his knowledge of magic—particularly fire magic—would prove invaluable.
The journey to Oldtown was a long one.
They would have to cross nearly the entire Reach, traveling from Goldengrove on the northern frontier all the way to one of the greatest cities in Westeros at its southern edge.
On dragonback, the trip would take no more than two days.
Traveling by horse with an escort…
At least two weeks.
The distance approached a thousand kilometers, and the road was anything but straight.
Out of idle curiosity, Gawen had even calculated the journey himself.
If he traveled alone, riding day and night while relying on his enhanced physique, he could probably make the trip in a single week.
Provided the roads cooperated.
That, unfortunately, was the real problem.
For all their grand names—the Kingsroad, the Rose Road, the Gold Road—the highways of Westeros were little more than broad dirt tracks carved by generations of wagons and horses.
Every rainfall turned them into seas of mud.
Even the Kingsroad’s stone-paved sections had long since cracked and fallen into disrepair.
The thought reminded Gawen of the fantasy worlds from his previous life.
In those realms, earth mages didn’t merely build roads.
They reinforced them with magic and runes, making them vastly stronger and more durable.
The boy sighed softly.
Magic…
It was the thread that allowed truly magical worlds to flourish.
Looking at Westeros, he felt nothing but pity.
It reminded him of a bird with broken wings.
And knowing that this world had once possessed genuine magic only made that pity heavier.
“My lord.”
Ser Harwyn guided his horse alongside Gawen’s.
“Up ahead is Holyhall.”
He pointed toward a gray-white castle standing upon a rise overlooking the river valley.
“Lord Graceford is sworn to House Tyrell.
His domain isn’t particularly large, but the castle sits on high ground beside a tributary of the Mander, making it easy to defend.”
“Our two houses have been allies for generations.”
“Your grandfather’s generation even joined through marriage.”
Gawen studied the distant fortress.
Unlike Goldengrove, which lay embraced by forests, Holyhall stood alone upon the riverside heights.
Broad wheat fields and grazing pastures spread across the surrounding countryside.
Its curtain walls were not especially tall, but they appeared thick and sturdy.
Above the towers fluttered the banner of House Graceford—
A silver hawk upon a field of blue.
“What sort of man is Lord Graceford?”
“Warm and hospitable.”
Harwyn chose his words carefully.
“Though perhaps…
a little too eager to attach himself to powerful families.”
“He has no sons.”
“Only a daughter.”
“She’s about ten years old now.
Her name is Alys.”
“He even proposed an alliance with House Rowan several years ago.”
“Your father declined.”
“Since we’re passing through now…”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he raises the matter again.”
Gawen simply nodded.
He already knew his father’s opinion.
Alys Graceford was little more than a last-resort candidate.
Unless every other possible marriage alliance failed…
House Rowan would never seriously consider the match.
When the party reached the castle, Lord Graceford himself came out to greet them.
He appeared to be around fifty years old.
Of average height, with a neatly trimmed gray beard, he wore a dark blue velvet coat fastened by a silver hawk brooch.
Yet there was something about him…
Something Gawen couldn’t quite describe.
It felt…
Odd.
His smile seemed almost unnaturally enthusiastic.
Grasping Gawen’s hand, he welcomed him over and over again.
“A child of House Rowan!”
The lord led them into the castle while firing off one question after another.
“How is your father?”
“And your mother?”
“And your little sisters?”
“My father and mother are both in good health.”
“My sisters are doing well too.”
Gawen answered politely.
“Excellent!
Excellent!”
Lord Graceford patted him on the shoulder.
“You take after your mother.”
“When Lady Bethany was young, she was considered one of the greatest beauties in the Reach.”
“Not that you look bad yourself.”
He laughed heartily.
“Though you’re much too thin.”
“You’ll have to eat well while you’re staying at Holyhall.”
“I’ll have the kitchens prepare braised lamb and serve it with last year’s finest vintage.”
“I guarantee you’ll gain weight in three days.”
“Then I shall gladly accept your hospitality, my lord.”
Gawen smiled graciously.
The procession entered the castle.
Its interior proved far more spacious than the exterior suggested.
While crossing the courtyard, Gawen’s attention was drawn toward a lone weirwood standing in one corner.
A weathered face had been carved into its trunk.
Several strips of rain-soaked cloth hung from its branches.
The tree radiated a faint…
Cold presence.
Very faint.
Gawen frowned.
But said nothing.
Portraits of generations of House Graceford lined the walls of the great hall.
Oak logs crackled merrily within the fireplace, filling the room with comforting warmth while driving every shadow from the stone walls.
Lord Graceford arranged for Gawen to stay in the finest guest chamber on the second floor.
Ser Harwyn and the rest of the escort were quartered in the barracks on the castle’s western side.
“My lord.”
Harwyn paused at the doorway.
“I’ll see to the horses and the men.”
“I’ll come fetch you before dinner.”
“Thank you, Ser.”
Gawen inclined his head.
Once the door closed behind him, he walked over to the fireplace and crouched before the dancing flames.
Orange-red firelight flickered across his face.
He slowly raised a hand.
A tiny golden-white flame blossomed within his palm.
This…
Was no ordinary fire.
He crossed the room and pushed open the wooden window.
Several ancient oak trees stood within the courtyard.
The gardens below were filled with medicinal herbs—
Rosemary.
Sage.
Lavender.
Along with several rare patches of silverleaf.
[Flora Mastery Proficiency +1]
A faint stream of natural energy flowed into his body.
“It’s going to rain.”
Gawen frowned slightly.
Almost immediately afterward…
A low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier.